


Según tu punto de vista, yo soy la mala

by 57821



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Pre-Canon, lots of flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27002929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/57821/pseuds/57821
Summary: It's been a while since they've seen each other.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Carlotta Giudicelli
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Según tu punto de vista, yo soy la mala

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from La Tirana by La Lupe. Translation is: "From your point of view, I am the villain"

A shred of familiarity unveils himself with that chilling tone that she would recognize anywhere.

"You're back."

She's not surprised. He was bound to confront her anyway. 

Wondering how he sees her now, she trails her black eyes on the grand dressing mirror in front of her that reflects his image to her. It's not like she exactly cares but after all, it's been years.

Dark hair relaxed as usual but curled in a manner as if attempting to recreate lost time, two twin locks dangling in spirals while the rest secured by a pin, piling heavily in the back. Cheeks plump, flat face softened by time and the under eyes just beginning to wrinkle. 

She imagines he hasn't changed much.

"So I am." She responds cooly. 

Outgrowing her place in the chorus to take the center stage before the arts swept her across the continent back and forth like some kind of marionette. Fibs of spectres and the likes creeping amongst brick, the occasional thrill of a mishap backstage that kept everyone on their toes, though more so to her. She isn't superstitious but she always liked danger. 

Unfortunately for her, Erik was merely but a man.

"What gives me the grace of your presence, Monsieur Fantome?"

Still silent as ever, from his reflection, there he stands just barely visible, rigid, with leathery gloved hands folded.

Pursing her lips, she tries once more.

"If you've come to sabotage me, it's not going to work."

"Why would Erik ever think of such a thing?" He finally speaks.

A lie. 

He knows what he's doing. Well, at least she thinks he does.

Stirring back things he shouldn't (or maybe they were just fuming around, lying dormant deep inside but she doesn't want to think about that). And he knows this and the last thing she needs is her bundle of nerves skyrocketing in the midst of song. Jittery despite her polished demeanor, almost more so than him. Or maybe that's the price she has to pay for even thinking of coming back to this, _this place_.

_"Chasing ghosts, Señora?" That voice looming from the shadows in their first encounter, implying she's older than she truly, absolutely infuriating yet intriguing her so._

"I don't take kindly to games." She reminds him, clutching onto her pride.

"Ah but, Erik is aware." Slipping into Castellano and she swallows thickly.

"Did you miss it? At all?" 

There's a hint of desperation in his tone that she is all too familiar with.

Well, did she? Miss what, exactly?

Meeting that first time on the turn of the age in which they both would be expected to have been wed (but the two of them have always been unconventional.) Those lessons that saw in such a sharp contrast between them.

She sings because she can. Using it to her advantage, snatching up the opportunity to leave her disgustingly quaint Pampaneira to Granada and finally standing tall in Barcelona. Powerful and steady, her voice is, with a dark undertone but she has one hindrance.

_"My dear, your voice, your voice! Beautiful beautiful! But where is your passion? Where is your heart?"_

That string of words, carefully crafted syllables spat out at her that she has grown accustomed to.

Where was it? Her heart, or yet something even more ridiculous, a soul. Emotion. Carlotta has carried plenty of it, just waiting to burst forth from her. Such utter ridiculousness.

Now on the account of him, he sings because he needs to. A kin to a man quenching his thirst with each soft note he croons out. Gifted, but by his own making. Hard work molded in the shape of those fragile winding hands. Deep and heavy espresso voice layered with anguish, waiting and wanting to be heard. In the winding halls of the catacombs, during dress rehearsal, where they'd meet. Sometimes she'd slip off and try to find him herself only to nearly end up killing herself in the process by the courtesy of her trap-door lover. Oh, but the thrill of facing danger head on in the eye and the-

Wait. 

Where were we? 

_Ah yes, as_ we were saying. His voice.

She could almost fall in love with it. And maybe she already did, already has, already is. But he doesn't need to know that or perhaps he already does. The two of them are so indecisive. Maybe that's why they keep coming back.

That being said, in all his grandeur, she took notice in how at her time at the Garnier, endless praises would be sung to her. Never ever forgetting that particular review in which would launch her to stardom.

_"With a powerful stage presence, Carlotta Álvarez commands the stage holding strong notes. A solidifying performance, as if she had come to take her rightful center place in this world."_

Maybe she did find it after all. That emotion, that true passion, just maybe in the shape of him. Under the folds of curtains, in the stage. Hushed whispers, slipping into her native tongue. Their little secret.

Carlotta was never the superstitious type. Never was, never will be. 

("¿Buscando espantos, _Señorita_?" He would greet her, playing at her like always and she'd bounce back with something more with that sharp tongue of hers.)

"On occasion." She finally replies, swiftly shifting her body towards him and turning to face him head on. 

That is all that she allows herself to say. 

Brushing the fine fabric of her costume up, she rises, heading to the door to take her leave, blood pumping fast under his heavy gaze.

That voice behind her calls out, "Wait!"

So she turns, looking into those golden eyes, trembling behind that leathery mask and waits.

"Good luck." 

It's soft, far too gentle for what she deserves and she just nearly almost regrets leaving.

Chewing the inside of her lip, Carlotta's hardened eyes soften.

"Thank you."

**Author's Note:**

> Carlotta is a Spaniard in the Gaston Leroux novel. My Carlotta's last name is Álvarez and is from Pampaneira, Spain. They call Spanish, Castellano in Spain.
> 
> Additional translations:
> 
> ¿Buscando espantos Señorita? = Chasing ghosts Miss?
> 
> About Carlotta being offended by Erik calling her Señora, that's a term usually reserved for older/married women. Señorita is reserved for young women but depending on the person, it can be seen as offensive.


End file.
